


Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk

by dragons_in_the_north



Series: Thomas Barrow Valentine's Prompts 2021 [2]
Category: Downton Abbey
Genre: Fluff and Humor, Kid POV, M/M, Warning: this may rot your teeth, the inherent friendship in sharing midnight snacks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-17 02:28:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,917
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29585859
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dragons_in_the_north/pseuds/dragons_in_the_north
Summary: Barrow inclined that elegant head and whispered to James something George didn’t catch. That was not in itself odd; adults spoke in hushed undertones often enough around him. No, the strange thing was that Barrow placed the gloved hand upon James’ shoulder as he leaned in, then—so quickly George might’ve blinked and missed it—the hand travelled down to the upper arm, squeezing gently before returning to its proper place at his side.
Relationships: George Crawley & Jimmy Kent, Thomas Barrow & George Crawley, Thomas Barrow/Jimmy Kent
Series: Thomas Barrow Valentine's Prompts 2021 [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2136630
Comments: 7
Kudos: 58
Collections: Well I love you: Valentines for Thomas Barrow





	Cigarettes & Chocolate Milk

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by Prompt #6: "What are you smiling about?"

James was the most horrid person in all the world, George had decided. He wanted Nanny, but she was in bed with the flu, so instead the footman stood guard over the nursery like a grumpy imp from a fairy story. There was no Hide and Seek or Captain May I to play, and George wasn’t allowed to remove his jacket. Mama had bought it for him in London; he couldn’t move his arms properly and it _itched._ As he stamped his foot in retaliation—Sybbie playing quietly with her dollies beside him—James’ face darkened to an unlikely shade of red, a vein throbbing beneath the thin skin of his forehead.

“Listen here,” began the footman, but at that moment, Barrow poked his head through the doorway.

“What’s all the ruckus for? I could hear you all the way in the West Wing.”

Instantly, thoughts of screaming and throwing things flew out of George’s head. Barrow was not his absolute favourite person—that was Mama, itchy jackets aside—but he certainly came close to the top. He knew all sorts of games and stories, including a very clever trick in which he’d pull a coin from behind your ear. More importantly, he was there whenever George needed him. In a world in which adults whizzed by like brightly-painted horses on a carousel, Barrow stood steady and solid.

James gestured emphatically in George’s direction. “Do something, will ya? He likes you.”

George scrunched up his face again. He _hated_ it when people spoke as if he wasn’t there.

Barrow turned neatly on his heel and addressed the children. “Good afternoon, Miss Sybbie. Master George.” He didn’t speak in a cloying, sing-song voice as many grown-ups did.

They greeted him in turn, their good breeding already doing its work even at such a young age.

“So,” Barrow said in that frightfully straightforward manner of the downstairs people, “Master George, what’s silly James done now?”

“Oi!” Barrow silenced James with a look and a subtle flick of his wrist. George was slowly sorting out that there was a hierarchy amongst the soberly-dressed men and women who flitted in and out of rooms like silent ghosts. He didn’t know precisely on which rung Barrow resided, but he bossed about nearly _everybody._

“Barrow, tell him I don’t have to wear this jacket,” said George. He lifted his chin imperiously in a manner copied from Mama and Donk. “It’s _dreadful._ ”

With an exaggerated expression of thought wrinkling his brow, Barrow examined George and his clothes from all sides and angles. He tapped his chin with a long, slender finger, which made George giggle. “I don’t mean to contradict you, Master George, but I don’t think I’ve ever seen such a fine jacket in my life. You cut quite the handsome figure in it.”

The thing was, George wanted to look exactly like Barrow when he was all grown-up. Everyone told him he would look like his daddy, but he’d never seen the man except for in a few faded photographs. He saw Barrow every day, and he admired his commanding height, his broad shoulders, the neatness and crisp lines of his livery—almost as if one of George’s toy soldiers had sprung to life, fully grown. If Barrow said something was pleasing to the eye, George trusted him completely.

But what _really_ changed his mind was the absolutely miserable expression that had come to reside on James’ face. Squinting eyes darted back and forth between the man and the boy, a suspicious frown twisting snake-like at that funny, girlish mouth. George felt, for some unknowable reason, the intoxicating flush of victory that came with getting one over on someone.

“I’ve changed my mind,” he said, smiling brightly at Barrow to watch the lines of James’ grimace deepen. “I’ll wear it for a _little_ longer.”

“If that’s what you wish,” said Barrow. He turned to leave the room. And then he did the strangest thing. He inclined that elegant head and whispered to James something George didn’t catch. That was not in itself odd; adults spoke in hushed undertones often enough around him. No, the strange thing was that Barrow placed the gloved hand upon James’ shoulder as he leaned in, then—so quickly George might’ve blinked and missed it—the hand travelled down to the upper arm, squeezing gently before returning to its proper place at his side.

As if by magic, James’ features melted into something George might have found handsome, were he more obliging towards the footman. A terrible tenseness vanished from about his person, eyes glittering with unconcealed delight, lips twitching upwards into an honest, open smile. He tilted his chin in what may have been a nod, and Barrow promptly disappeared in that queer, soundless manner of servants.

George scratched viciously at the rough wool covering his elbow, turning over and over in his mind the question of why Barrow would care to put such an unpleasant fellow as James into a good mood.

\---

That night, a thunderstorm woke George. In mid-February, there ought to have been snow blanketing the ground while he slept, an endless white wonderland waiting for him in the morning, perfect for sledding and snow forts and angel’s silhouettes pressed into the powder. But instead the weather had warmed just enough for rain to pour down in freezing sheets, lightning slicing through the sea of bruised clouds like the warning flash of a knife. As a bone-deep rumble of thunder rattled the glass in the window frames, George’s eyes shot open in the dark, his body trembling beneath the coverlet tucked up to his chin.

He wasn’t going back to sleep anytime soon. What he needed was a warm mug of milk.

Rolling out of bed and landing neatly on his feet, George wrapped his silk robe about himself and stepped into velvet slippers. Beside him Sybbie slept soundly, her favourite dolly clasped close to her chest, strands of hair sneaking between her parted pink lips. On the other side of the night nursery, the hallboy meant to watch them had fallen asleep in a straight-back chair while thumbing through a cricket magazine. The spotty head—backlit by the gentle halo of a reading lamp—tilted up toward the ceiling, the buck-toothed mouth gaping open to allow snores rivalling the noise of the storm to escape.

George grabbed a white, crisp sleeve and attempted to shake the older boy awake once, twice, three times. No joy. He may as well have been one of the stone statues out in the rose garden for all he moved.

It didn’t matter. George was a big boy now. Surely he could make warm milk himself. He’d never actually _seen_ anyone do it, but how hard could it be? And he could reach nearly all the cupboards in the kitchen if he stood up on the countertop. Without hesitation, he opened the door—balancing up on tiptoes to reach the knob—and slipped out into the hall.

The sconces upon the walls provided a friendly, orange glow. Feeling like a brave knight, he sallied forth, only to falter a little at an unfamiliar bend in the corridor, then another, then another. It was one thing to traverse his house with a friendly adult leading him by the hand, but on his own—in the middle of the night—he was trapped in an eternal maze, the one with a bull at the end waiting to gobble him up.

Heart pounding in his throat, he threw his weight against a nondescript, green door, almost hidden amongst the trailing vines of the wallpaper. He did not descend the narrow spiral of stairs on the other side, for in that moment his thoughts were entirely fixed on the one person he needed desperately to see. Instead he travelled up, up, _up_ until his legs were sore and he’d reached the final landing at the very top of the house. Sybbie—who secretly delighted in being older and therefore wiser—had told him this was where the servants slept. He hoped she hadn’t told a lie. At least he was too tired to be afraid anymore.

Seeing how he couldn’t read yet—another thing Sybbie teased him for—the black squiggles pinned neatly to each door arranged in lines on either side wouldn’t have been any help even if there was light enough to make out the individual letters. Instead he pressed his ear up to the first door on his left, hoping to hear movement, hoping to hear Barrow’s voice.

He did. Although he did not recognise it from the first, so strangely roughened was it by the unfamiliar accent, and strangely softened by a vulnerability so incongruous to the cleverest man George knew. “You… you made me a Valentine’s Day card?” The words were spoken at a whisper, nearly too quiet to be heard, and George moved even closer, cheek pressed flush to the woodgrain.

“Nah, it’s for the _other_ under-butler I’m romancin’,” said another voice, a man. The low rasp, the cheeky, secret smile tucked into every syllable set a bell ringing in George’s head. But for the moment he couldn’t rightly say to whom it belonged. “I know it’s dangerous to sign me name to it like that. Once you’re done reading, you could always burn it—”

“ _No!_ ” Barrow burst out, so loud George nearly pulled away in surprise. Then, much quieter: “I could never.” A shaky exhale followed.

“Don’t get soppy on me yet, Thomas,” the other voice said. “Not until I’ve had my present.”

“Jimmy, I didn’t—I didn’t think—I’m so sorry, but I haven’t gotten you anything.”

“Don’t be daft. O’course you did.” The man spoke slowly and deliberately, with a queer emphasis upon certain words as if he were teaching Barrow his letters or numbers or shapes. “My present’s right _here._ I need to _unwrap_ it, that’s all.” Then came a series of funny noises—creaking of bedsprings, rustling of clothes or possibly bedsheets hitting the floor, twin sets of breath turning ragged.

“Oh,” said Barrow. Then, “oh” again, this time in a way that didn’t sound like a word at all.

“Thomas, _Thomas,_ I lo—”

George had had quite enough of this grown-up nonsense. He peeled himself away from the door, lifted a hand, and rapped his knuckles twice against the wood.

More than hearing it, he _felt_ the silence that descended swiftly in the other room, like a curtain being pulled down. The other day, he and Sybbie had fought over a toy, and when they’d seen Nanny marching towards them, that same silence had thickened the air—that copper-tang fear of being caught, of being punished. Now, in the dark, George’s stomach prickled in sympathy.

Hushed, furtive movement leaked out into the corridor, then abruptly the door swung open. Barrow stood on the other side, tying a knot in the cord of a frayed, flannel robe. Seeing the man out of his livery was such a shocking thing, it took George a moment to notice how that thick, black hair stuck up in all directions, how red and shiny those lips were, how a muscle twitched off-rhythm behind the dark stubble dotting that strong jaw. And in that same moment, Barrow’s gaze travelled down to the small boy alone out in the hall, brows shooting up towards his hairline.

“Master George? What are you doing here?” Eyes narrowed suspiciously. “Where’s Peter?”

That must have been the hall boy. “He’s asleep.”

Barrow was properly glaring now. “Oh, is he?” George supposed Peter was in for a spanking.

“I would like some warm milk, please,” he said.

Immediately that marble statue face softened. “Of course, Master George. Come with me.” He moved to step out into the corridor and close the door behind him.

George had mostly forgotten about the second voice coming from the other side of the door. He might’ve simply went with Barrow down the stairs without any questions, if not for the muffled _thud,_ followed by a less muffled curse.

Eyes wide, he whispered, “Is there a monster in there?”

Barrow sighed heavily. “No monsters. Only an idiot.” He led George into the room.

It was quite small, more the size of a closet than anything else. The bed wasn’t much bigger than George’s own. Barrow strode over to the wardrobe in the corner and knocked twice, just as George had. A moment later, James the footman emerged sheepishly, rubbing the back of his head. His cheeks glowed pink. A wrinkled robe hung over his forearm, and the white undershirt he wore was inside out. He didn’t look away from George once.

Barrow said, “James here can’t make warm milk either, can you, James?” The other man shook his head meekly, and that more than anything told George something was wrong. “He came to me for help too. I think we should all go down to the kitchen together. Would that be all-right, Master George?”

Mostly the upright under-butler had returned, but absentmindedly Barrow massaged the gloved hand. For the first time in his life, George wondered if it hurt, whatever was hidden underneath the leather. He bit down hard upon his lip, nearly hard enough to draw blood, and agreed.

The stairway was not wide enough to accommodate the three of them side-by-side. Barrow took the lead, a lit candle bouncing watery light onto the walls. James and George trailed just behind. A large, golden hand wrapped loosely around his own as he squinted down at steps worn smooth by countless pairs of feet. Another roll of thunder roared through, loud enough to rattle George’s teeth, and he froze in place, pinned like a butterfly to a square of cork. Suddenly thick arms prickly with flannel swept him up off the ground, the weight of his child body resting against a solid chest.

Pressed against him was a bigger, stronger body which trembled just as he did. Shadowed eyes fixed upon the top of George’s head as if it were a waiting hangman’s noose. And in that moment George understood. James was frightened of him. George didn’t want anyone to be frightened of him, not _really._ Except perhaps monsters. But James wasn’t a monster; he was only a man. So George, without hesitation, threw his arms about James’ neck and buried his face in his shoulder to give him comfort.

“Oh,” said the footman, very softly. He patted George on the back once, twice. “Don’t be scared, mate. The storm can’t hurt you in here. It’s just a lot of noise, like old Mr Carson when he’s makin’ a fuss.”

George giggled.

As they started moving again, James paused to adjust George’s weight against his hip. “ _Oof,_ you’re heavy.”

“I can carry him just fine,” Barrow drawled up ahead, not bothering to turn around.

George lifted his head in time to see James stick his tongue out at the straight line of Barrow’s back. George stuck his tongue out too, simply because he could.

At the very bottom of the stairs, they padded down a dark, cavernous hallway, footsteps muted by soft-soled slippers shuffling across stone. Below ground, the pounding rain sounded quite far away, a half-remembered dream clinging to the skin of reality. Barrow extinguished the candle and flicked on a switch, revealing a bright, familiar kitchen with gleaming taps and a long, unvarnished wooden work surface.

James fetched a thick, heavy recipe book so George could sit at the small table by the window without difficulty, while Barrow—every movement clockwork-precise—collected items from the cabinets, found a jug of milk in the ice box, lit the stove using the careful application of a match. George swung his legs back and forth in an easy rhythm. James slid into the chair beside him—then, like a sunflower that cannot help but to turn its head, he watched the powerful, graceful figure on the other side of the room with rapt attention.

After a moment of stirring the milk, Barrow nodded once to himself, a sharp, decisive gesture. He reached up, up to bring down a tin from the top of one of the cabinets. The shirt of his pyjamas rode up, revealing a pale stripe of skin, a hint of dark hair dusting his belly. Quick as a flash, he’d transformed from dignified under-butler to contented housecat stretching after a long nap. George’s attention slid over to James, who was chuckling at the sight without an ounce of meanness to it. And then—most curiously—the footman arched his fingers over the worn, knicked surface of the table, hands splayed. Star-bright eyes fixed decidedly elsewhere, the golden, square-tipped digits danced across the surface with unerring confidence. To George, it looked like magic.

“What are you smiling about?” he asked. Not waiting for the answer, he barreled on: “What are you doing with your fingers? Why do you look at Barrow like he’s a pudding?”

A cough came from the other end of the kitchen. Barrow had lifted the lid off the tin, and a puff of brown powder had gone right up his nose. James flushed bright red. “I _don’t._ ” He looked down at his hands still arched over the table, seeming to notice them for the first time. “Ah. I’m practicing scales on the piano. The movement of it, anyway. I do that sometimes, when me mind’s somewhere else.”

“You play the piano?” Nobody had ever asked George if he would like to learn an instrument.

“He’s very good,” said Barrow. He was stirring spoonfuls of cocoa powder into steaming mugs of milk. “He can play from memory, even.”

James ducked his head. “I’m all-right.” But he preened, just a little, at the compliment.

“Play for me,” demanded George.

“It’s a bit late for that.”

Barrow swept forward with two of the mugs, setting them down on the table, before returning with a third for himself. George needed both hands to lift porcelain almost too hot against his palms. It smelled like heaven.

“Blow on it first, Georgie,” Barrow said. He didn’t call George that very often—usually when he couldn’t stop crying from scraping his knee or losing his teddy. “And sip slowly.” He demonstrated with his own mug; George followed his lead. He managed not to burn his tongue. The warmth travelled deep down inside him. His eyelids drooped.

“If you’re very good tomorrow,” said Barrow, “and your mother gives her permission, you can come down here in the afternoon, and James will play you something.”

“He will?” exclaimed George, at the same moment James said, “I will?” The footman cleared his throat. “O’course I will. I can even teach you a little, if you like.”

“Do you teach Barrow?”

James smiled, truly smiled. “Mostly he teaches _me_ things.”

Looking as if he’d swallowed a hornet, Barrow hissed, “ _Jimmy._ ”

“He’s always showing me how to be a better man,” continued James, “a better… friend.”

George put in, “He taught me how to tie a sailor’s knot.”

“Well there you are. What would we do without our Mr Barrow, eh?”

The other man turned abruptly away to remove a stubborn speck of dust from his eye.

When George had drunk his mug down nearly to the brown cocoa dregs settled on the bottom, James plopped a hand palm-up on the table, an almost involuntary gesture. At the sight of it, Barrow pursed his lips and gave a tiny shake of the head. James rolled his eyes, waving a hand in the vague direction of the doorway leading out into the hall. With a sigh, Barrow pulled a cardboard packet from a robe pocket. He shook a small, white tube free and placed it in James’ hand, along with a dented, silver lighter. All this happened in a matter of a few seconds.

The footman slouched against the doorframe a few metres away, exhaling smoke out into the corridor and tapping loose ash into his emptied mug. There was a rhythm to it, like a clock, like a metronome. Inhale, exhale, tap. George was warm and safe and content. He leaned forward in his chair, resting his head in his arms. Inhale, exhale, tap. Inhale, exhale…

George opened his eyes again to find he was curled up on someone’s lap. He thought at first it was Barrow, but then he realised the figure smoking in the doorway was dark-haired and tall.

“I think it’s time to go to bed,” James whispered to him, the words vibrating like a cat’s purr where George’s hand was pressed to his chest.

George nodded. “Barrow and I will see you to your room. Make sure nothing bad happens to you.” He burrowed deeper into the circle of the man’s arms, sleep tugging at his eyelids.

He awoke in the attic corridor. The rain had died down to a gentle, persistent patter upon the roof. Barrow was holding him. James’ eyes darted between two of the doors on either end, and he gnawed at his bottom lip. “Go to your room, Jimmy,” Barrow said in his usual no-nonsense tone. “It’s all-right. I’ll _see you_ tomorrow.” Again with that strange emphasis. Again he squeezed James’ arm.

The other man softened around the eyes and disappeared behind the door on the left, the one that wasn’t Barrow’s. He carried himself like someone who wasn’t afraid of the monsters anymore. And why would he be? Barrow was the bravest man George had ever known. If a fellow was with him, he couldn’t help but to be brave too.

George drifted in and out of consciousness as the under-butler carried him through the corridors. When Barrow threw open the door to the night nursery and loudly cleared his throat, both the hall boy and George jolted awake. The older boy leapt out of his chair. He stood at attention, mouth flopping open and closed like a fish’s. “Mr Barrow! I wasn’t—that is, I didn’t mean to—”

Barrow let him flounder for a moment more. He deposited George onto his bed, and the small boy burrowed at once beneath the covers. “Off to bed with you, Peter,” he said. “I’ll keep an eye on things here.”

“But Mr Carson—”

Barrow turned to face Peter the hall boy, an eyebrow raised. “ _Mr Carson_ wouldn’t like to hear you’ve been sleeping on the job, now would he?”

Peter nodded, then shook his head, then nearly tripped over his own two feet exiting the room. George wondered if one day he’d be tall and imposing enough to make someone all flustered. He rather hoped so. It seemed a useful skill to have. As Barrow settled into the recently vacated chair, flipping idly through the abandoned cricket magazine, George rested his head upon his pillow, eyelids at half-mast.

“Will you give James a Valentine as well?” he asked.

The under-butler stiffened, face drained of any colour—a marble statue once more. “Why would you say a thing like that, Master George?” Even his words had a brittle quality to them.

“It’ll be late,” George said, “but I don’t think he’ll mind. Everyone wants to get a Valentine from someone they love.”

“Georgie, I think you’re confused—”

“Don’t worry, Barrow.” The beginnings of sleep weighed down his limbs, preparing to pull him out to sea. He would dream of cigarettes and chocolate milk, of red, warm love pulsing at the centre of carefully-carved statues, and people looking on without ever seeing. “I know how to keep a secret.”


End file.
